


His Own Hero

by BombshellKell



Category: Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BombshellKell/pseuds/BombshellKell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being wounded in battle, Fandral sits in the healing wing with Sif and tells her why he’s become the way he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Own Hero

“How many times have I told you not to do this?” Sif said with a sigh, as she came in with a handful of stones. Fandral looked up from where he’d been laid out on a bed in the healing wing, the only bed that was currently occupied at all. In the fight on Alfheim, Volstagg had gotten a scrape on his forehead and Hogun had broken a finger, but all of that was quickly and efficiently fixed by one or two stones. Fandral, however, had once again managed to get himself critically wounded with a blade through his shoulder, while trying to push Loki out of the way of a group of enemies coming at him from behind. 

“Enough,” he said, trying to sit up with a groan. Sif pushed him back down again, her palm against his other shoulder. He laughed, a bit breathlessly. “Be gentle with me, Sif. I’ve just been stabbed.” 

“And it was entirely your fault,” she pointed out, crushing one of the stones in her hand and letting the dust fall onto the mottled wound. “I don’t know what it is that makes you so foolhardy, Fandral, but I’m getting a bit tired of patching you up after you prove yourself. It isn’t as if we all don’t know you’re more than capable with you’re sword, you don’t have to be a hero.” 

He shook his head, cringing as the dust sank into the wound, a stretching and pulsing feeling squeezing at his chest as it healed some. “No, it isn’t that at all. I’m not doing it to prove myself to all of you.”

“Then why are you doing it?” she demanded, and for the first time since the conversation had started, he realized that they weren’t being teasing, and she was actually mad. “Do you want to get yourself killed?” 

“No.” He sighed, as she crushed the second stone, and the tightening sensation returned. “It’s complicated, Sif. Not something you can quickly recount to someone demanding an explanation. It’s got to do with… well, with many things, really. My mother, my father. My life before I came to live here with all of you.” 

Sif no longer looked as angry as she had before, and as she crumbled the last bits of the final stone on his shoulder, she sat on the edge of the bed. “You never speak of your life before you came here. Besides the rare mention of your mother when you’ve had a lot to drink.” 

“There is a reason for that,” he said, and looked past her, toward the window. “It isn’t something I particularly enjoy speaking of.” 

“Fandral.” She replaced the cool cloth over his wound. “You are my best friend, and I, hopefully, yours. There isn’t anything you can tell me about yourself that will surprise me, I promise you that.” 

“You’ve made a promise you won’t be able to keep, I’m afraid,” he told her, his other hand resting over the cloth and cringing as he realized the healing wound was still bruised and tender. “You’ll find I’m not all laughter and drunken jokes.” 

“I will believe that when I hear it,” she said, moving wholly onto the bed and sitting cross-legged by his feet. “Carry on with the story, and after this, then I’ll truly be able to say I know everything.” 

“If you insist,” Fandral said, and sat up, with considerable effort, to lean back against the headboard. Sif looked at him expectantly, and figuring there was no way to get out of it, he began. 

“Once there was a man who fought in the Allfather’s army. He was brave, honorable… everything a man could ever hope to be. The man lived in a town not far from here, in a modest house, modest only because he hardly spent any time there. The majority of the time, he was off fighting, serving the king of Asgard, or going on adventures. He had a thirst for adventure that he’d later pass on to his son,” he added, as she gave him a knowing look. “He served for many years, and happily so, until one fateful day he was summoned to the palace. When he was there, he came across a woman, a servant who worked for Lady Frigga. 

“He only had to see her once. After that, he made excuses to come back and see her again. But for the first few months, he didn’t even dare to speak to her, only steal looks from the corner of his eye. She hadn’t the slightest idea that he was admiring her, until one day, when he quite literally ran into her, making her drop a stack of fresh linens into the mud. He scrambled to pick them up, assuring her that he’d help her clean them himself if he had to, but she brushed him off, saying that he could repay her by joining her in the tavern. He didn’t bother to say that he didn’t live in town, thinking that he could definitely entertain himself until she wanted to meet. She told him that she would come before sunset that night, and he agreed to meet her there. 

“When they sat in the tavern that night, both of them knew what was happening long before either of them voiced it. She smiled when she talked to him, and when he talked to her. He kept his eyes on her even when the tavern wenches strode by with their plunging necklines and loosened bodices. Nothing slipped past her; she knew that he was enamored with her. Before the night was out, they kissed. Neither of them felt that it was too soon, and neither of them felt it was awkward. Then, it was perfect. And things continued to be perfect for a long while after that. They kept seeing each other, kept falling in love. 

“Eventually, she quit her duties at the palace, and he returned with her to his little house in the next town over. She loved it there, loved the fields of wheat and the green grasses and the clear skies. She didn’t mind that he was gone often, because he always came back. Then, when he was away for a long trip, away for nearly seven months, he came back to a surprise. When he came back into the house, she was sitting by the fire, her belly swollen and straining against her dress. They were having a child, and he’d returned just in time to spend the remaining few months with her. He loved the idea of a child, a son, but she was frightened. She’d never wanted to have children, and now it was happening whether she wanted it to or not. So she promised herself that no matter what, she would love this child. It was a son. As you may have guessed by now, they named him Fandral. 

“I grew up with both of my parents, though my father wasn’t there as often as both my mother and I would have liked him to be. He loved both of us, but I think that he loved the thrill of battle much more. I remember, when I was seven years old, I would run away from my mother while she was on one of her rants about how I don’t do enough around the house, not enough chores, not enough time spent with her. I would run away for the day and not return until I heard her yelling for me when the sun was setting. One day, though… I didn’t hear her. Instead I heard footsteps through the wheat. My father sat next to me in the tall sheafs and ruffled my hair, telling me it was the exact same color as the wheat was. I got angry; I thought wheat was such a boring thing to compare myself to. But he told me something I’ve never forgotten, and that was that wheat was necessary, and that there were people who needed me as much as they needed wheat, and that even if I did grow up to be ordinary and boring, there would always be those who need me. 

“He stayed for a long while after that, and Mother was the happiest I’d ever seen her. For once, she smiled at me, even if she still didn’t speak much to me, and she stopped yelling. She was distracted by him, I suppose, and it went on like that for a long time, before he had to leave for a long journey with a group of soldiers, a journey that lasted three years.” 

Fandral sighed, staring down at his lap and visibly trying to keep his face straight and neutral. “He didn’t come back. We waited, and waited, running out to the Bifrost whenever more groups came back, but he was never among them. I was twelve when his body was brought back, and put out to sea.

“My mother wasn’t the same afterwards. It took her nearly a year to even accept that he was gone. She would say things like, ‘When your father gets back…’, and speak of him as if he’d merely gone away again. When it finally began to sink in, it got worse. She would call me by his name, give me his clothes to wear the older I got. She said it was because we didn’t have the money for new clothes, but we did. I know we did. I don’t think that she even remembers my name, even now. After a while, she said that going up to the palace would be good for me, and being Odin’s ward would be a much better environment than living out in the country with her.” He fell silent for a while, before looking up at Sif again. “So I came here. I was fourteen, and saw the opportunity to recreate myself. I discovered that girls would look at me and enjoy what they saw. I discovered drinking ale with Thor and haven’t quite stopped since. And I discovered a life without thinking about my mother.” 

Sif watched him sadly, and suddenly she understood him much more. Why he drank so much, why he craved attention so much, why he wanted, no, needed, to be a hero. Because his entire life, he couldn’t even dream of having one, and the only sort of role model he clung to disappeared, and he was shoved in his place. He had to be his own hero. She found herself seeing him much differently, and gently she put her hand on his shoulder, pressing the cooling cloth against the puncture there. 

“So now you know everything,” he said, trying to sound happy. “Have I proved you wrong, and surprised you?” 

She shook her head. “…Not quite, I don’t think,” she said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Stay still. I’ll fetch you some water.” She got up, turning away from him so he wouldn’t see her face. “…Fandral?” she asked, without turning around.

“Yes?” He looked up to her. 

“…You were wonderful today,” she said. “A true hero.”

He smiled, and closed his eyes as she left the room to get the cup of water.


End file.
